


Greasepaint

by EvenJestersCry



Category: Final Fantasy VI
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Possessive Behavior, Possessive Sex, Shameless Smut, Smut, slave crown, slow burn smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 06:25:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13676100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvenJestersCry/pseuds/EvenJestersCry
Summary: When she reaches to wipe the paint from her face, it only smudges, furthering the reach of the paint higher on her cheek. The paint has spread to her fingers. Each struggle only serves to spread the paint further, like coming into contact with a disease and attempting to flee; you will only carry it with you.(Shameless Kefka/Terra smut. Gratuitous use of the slave crown, so non-con. Lots of build up.)





	Greasepaint

She can still feel the oil of his face paint.

She remembers flickers of her previous days. Scent is the sense most strongly linked to memory, and the paint smells as artificial as he is, coupled with the hint of rose water.  She wonders if he makes his perfumes himself.

It’s hard to imagine him during simple, human activities, like putting rose petals into water. But she knows he must, because despite the dark forms he takes in her nightmares, in the real world he was starkly human.

She wonders if his manner of dress is because of distaste for his own humanity. He is a caricature of the pleasures of human life, of laughs and smiles. So that every laugh, every joke she shares with friends is overshadowed by the bitter taste of what laughs were to him. A cruel joke.

In the present day, even when she runs her fist across her mouth to wipe off any remnant of him, she still feels the grease paint. And the memories of her violation come flooding back, in flashes.

“My sweet little magic user...you are all mine.”

His possessive nature is not surprising. He has probably spent a long while waiting for this moment.

Under the influence of the slave crown, she can only do what she is commanded. It look a long time to remember her actions while wearing the slave crown. It is only later, surrounded by friends and far free of its influence, do memories return to her. She does not tell her friends of all of them.

 

\---

 

The grease paint clings to her face,

When she reaches to wipe the paint from her face, it only smudges, furthering the reach of the paint higher on her cheek. The paint has spread to her fingers. Each struggle only serves to spread the paint further, like coming into contact with a disease and attempting to flee; you will only carry it with you.

Every time he touches her, his fingers come away slowly, clinging to her skin along with the grease of face paint left behind. It seems to be never ending. She briefly wonders how long it takes him to put it on. If he reapplies throughout the day.

She is suffocating in the grease of the paint. Her vision is so clouded she wonders if he has kissed her mind and left paint there as well.

She feels herself being dragged down, her arms pressed against the softness of fabric. To feel something soft and comfortable seems almost like a cruel joke. It’s always a parody of intimacy with him, when he moves slowly. When he caresses her cheek with a tenderness that’s never present in his eyes. Leaving behind streaks of white.

She is distracted from any comfort of softness when he presses his face into the crook of her neck. She wonders if he deliberately drags his face against hers. Spreading the oily paint against her ears, the side of her face, down her neck. The feeling is so uncomfortable, so smothering, that she lets out a gasp.

“Enjoying yourself, are we~?”

His voice is thick like the molasses of his makeup, the end of his sentence trilling upwards. His speech is almost always like that, the pitch shifting upwards towards the end of his statements. It’s when his voice is deep and level that she knows his real self, his real fury. Knowing this, the playfulness in his tone is almost a relief.

He is toying with her, like he plays with his dolls. He refers to her as a doll sometimes, when he is feeling particularly _affectionate_ . Affection...such a foreign thing, yet all at once so close. There was once a time when attention from him caused her heart to soar. Her existence in the castle was lonely, as so many people were cautious to approach the Emperor’s _weapon_.

He didn’t treat her like a weapon, before. Before the slave crown, she would enjoy his attention. Him showing her his collection of dolls. He was one of the only people in the castle to have shown her affection...or at least, what she believed to be affection. She was so unfamiliar with the concept.

She briefly wonders how much of the paint is stained on her clothes.

The red dress was of his choosing. He had taken it upon himself to see to her new wardrobe. The embroidery, the stockings, the jewels that hung from her. She had thought of this as affection. A kindness. He had insisted that she be dressed finely, a reflection of the empire’s wealth and power. But she knew that he enjoyed seeing her in colors so similar to himself.

Red. The color of passion, fire, fury, _the streaks under his eyes._  He was so fond of her fire.

“My lovely doll…” He murmurs against the skin of her neck, and she shivers. “You’d never leave me, hmm~? Tell me you’d never leave.”

“Never, sir,” she replies, tonelessly. Inside she is writhing, tormented by her lack of control.

“Hmm…” He murmurs against her neck again, pressing his lips to her skin. She can’t keep her breath from hitching. Her body is too receptive under the crown’s influence, too eager to please.

She is laying back on his bed, among his lavish blankets and pillows. They are both still dressed, and she knows it is because he likes to be slow and thorough with this torture.

Lifting his face from its place against her neck, he looks down her form, eyes trailing down, until they sharply snap back to her own eyes. The red marks he so carefully applied this morning are smudged, with only his right eye retaining any of the original red streaked shape. The left eye’s red had been rubbed off when he had dragged his face against her own. His white face is still almost entirely covered in the paint she so abhorred.

There is only a tiny portion of his cheekbone, where a hint of his original skin peeks through. She muses to herself that perhaps this represents the only part of him that is really human.

He makes a clicking sound against his cheek in disapproval, looking her up and down.

“As wonderful as you look in red, my dear,” he drawls, looking down her body again, “I think…” He trails off, because he knows he doesn’t need to finish his thoughts.

She is laying halfway on his bed, her legs dangling off of the side. He sits up and slides off the bed so that he can look over her, before bending down.

She can’t see him now, as she stares blankly at the canopy above the bed. Her arms are laying flat beside her. He likes to arrange her as he pleases.

He feels a tug at her boot, and she knows he is removing her shoes. Her boots slide off, and she reflexively curls her toes. His hands move over her stocking-clothed feet, and up her calves. She instinctively shivers and rubs her thighs together. There is a heat building between them that starts at her slave crown. The metal ring around her head clouds everything, with only one desire clear. To please, to obey its creator. Not even her steel will can combat the gold crown’s sway.

He notices when she moves her thighs, and she hears him hum, almost mockingly.

“Can’t keep these closed, can we?” He pushes her thighs apart, his hands ghosting along the tops of them, until he comes to her red dress. He rubs his fingers against the satin fabric for a moment, as if considering his next move. His hands slide beneath her, grabbing the short hem of her dress, and hiking it up so that her tights are fully in view.

She knows that he chose such a short dress for a reason. And the tights that so closely match his own. Sometimes she thinks he simply wants to make love to his own mirror image.

His hands dig into her thighs, spreading her legs slightly further apart. She could see him now, if she wished, but her eyes remain firmly fixed on the red and gold of the canopy above. He had such a taste for lavish things.

She can feel his lips press against her thighs, can feel the oily paint through the sheer fabric of her tights. She ponders if he will tear them this time.

His actions are so light, so intimate that her eyes squeeze shut and she wonders if in another time, another place, she could enjoy something like this.

A bite to her inner thigh brings her crashing back, to this reality of his. This was his world, and she was merely a puppet on his strings.

He stands and reaches up to her chin, forcing her to look down at him.

“Pondering the stars, my dear?” She knows he doesn’t expect an answer. His gaze burns into her, and she stares back. She notes that his eyelashes are longer than hers, tinged with white from his makeup. There is a fire that dances in his eyes, too, but she doubts there is a slave crown that could control it.

He gazes down at her for a moment, before releasing her chin and kneeling again.

“Watch me.”

She can’t disobey. He holds her gaze as he grips the waistband of her stockings and pulls them down. She can’t control the blush that burns her cheeks, and she wants so badly to just look up at the canopy. Instead, she continues to watch him as he pulls her stockings down her legs and off her feet. Once again, she reflexively curls her toes. He lets out a slight chuckle at this movement, grabbing ahold of one of her feet and rubbing his thumb in small circles on the underside.

He knows that this tickles her, and she can’t withhold a small giggle. She hates her body for this betrayal.

“ _Oooh_ , I so love to see you enjoying yourself.” He smirks up at her, simpering in satisfaction at drawing a smile out of her.

“And you do enjoy yourself, don’t you?” He asks, and she is compelled to answer.

“Yes.” She is once again, toneless, staring him down, the hint of a smile gone from her face.

“Oh, my dear, I will see that fire in you, yet,” His hands slide up towards her smallclothes. “I will draw it out of you.”

_By force if need be._

When he does finally remove her smallclothes, he takes his time just looking at her. She hates this part. Him, just looking and touching her in her most private place. Spreading her open to put her on display for him. Her face is fire-red, she is sure. She is still staring down at him, and she wills her eyes to beg what she cannot say aloud.

_Please stop._

It’s almost a relief when he kisses her inner thigh, as it means he’s not just _looking_ at her, soaking her embarrassment in. He trails his lips closer, leaving behind a trail of grease paint.

_Goddamn his face paint._

She lets out a gasp when he finally puts his mouth on her, running his tongue between her swollen lips. Her body, her arousal is singing in response. Against her will, the heat between her legs has been building all this time, and to finally be touched causes her to release a breathe she didn’t know she had been holding.

He hums into her, his tongue deftly tracing circles around her most sensitive spot. He doesn’t quite touch it yet. He always draws this part out. He wants to make her squirm. Her body responds to him, dripping with arousal.

She was sure her face was as red as her fire. She can’t withhold a low whine, her breaths coming out quick and shallow. She wants to thrash her head from side to side, throw him off of her. Instead she only spreads her thighs wider apart.

He makes a satisfied humming sound, before finally lathing his tongue over where her body wants it most. She can feel the oil of his face paint all over the insides of her thighs, all over her sex, minging with the slick of her arousal.

She lets out a strangled moan, her crown compelling her to display her pleasure. Her body so wants to please him, to be touched by him, to obey his wishes. She screams inside what is left of her free mind, before letting out a real scream of pleasure.

He pauses in his ministrations, looking up, directly into her eyes as he inserts two of his fingers inside of her. The stretch, the _violation_ , is exactly what her body wants.

“So wet for me, aren’t you….Terra?” He is positively smug at how he can get her body to react.

She nods, almost enthusiastically, and he seems pleased by this. He returns to lick at her swollen nub, suckling at it lightly. His two fingers form a ‘come hither’ motion inside her, and she moans at the feel of it. Her eyes want to roll back, but she knows that she cannot disobey his order to watch.

When her climax hits her, she lets out a loud moan, her body twitching and burning hot. She is ashamed of her own body for enjoying this, enjoying what _he_ does. He is the first man to have ever made her climax. He has done it so many times like this that he knows how to make her peak quickly.

She is still breathing deeply, when he looks up at her. She is still obediently staring down at him.

“Such a darling girl…” He stands up to kiss her. She can taste herself on his tongue. “Lay back, lay back, my lovely…”

She lays flat on the bed, thanking the stars that she is now free to stare up at the canopy. He is the only one to have ever called her pet names like these. _Lovely, darling, my dear…_

He sits next to her, reaching up to undo the feathers from his hair, before gazing sideways at her.

“Be a good girl, and undress me. Pretty please?” He sneers at her, his use of the word ‘please’ entirely mocking.

She sits up, and reaches for the sashes at his waist. Undressing him was always such an ordeal. She moves slowly to prolong the inevitable, and is thankful that her slow movements can be confused for seduction.

She reaches up for the tie at his neck, letting his cape free to slide off of the bed. He applies his white paint all the way down to the top of his chest. He is so particular about his cosmetics. He never lets anyone see him without his face paint.

The scarves he keeps at his waist are now decorating the bed with their many colors. She remembers how she was once entranced by his appearance. Such a bright spot amongst the gloom of the castle. Now the colors only serve as a reminder of his unique control over her.

He lays back against the scarves, hiking his boots up into her lap. Only one boot has laces, and she works to undo them. The other one, sans laces, slides off with ease. She carefully sets them side by side on the ground by his bed. He was always so particular about keeping his boots clean.

Her fingers untie the knots on the top of his tunic. She can hear his breath hitch as she touches his sides, and the moment is so damn _intimate_ and _sickening_ that her hands pause for a moment. Thankfully, he does not seem to notice her brief moment of lucidity, as his hands cover her own.

“I’ll take it from here, darling,” He leans forward to whisper into her ear. His hands press her back against the bed again, into the feather down. His scarves smell of his rose perfume.

He stands at the side of the bed, and pulls her to him, so that her pelvis is resting on the edge and her legs are dangling again, the tips of her toes just barely brushing against the stone floor. She stares up at the canopy, before letting her eyes flicker down to see what he was doing.

He has removed the remainder of his cloth pauldrons, as well as his tunic. She can finally see where the grease paint fades away into skin. He is only wearing one glove, his breeches and his tights now. She stares back up straight at the canopy as she hears him fuss with the laces at his waistband.

When he enters her, he is slow, coating himself in her slick arousal. The stretch is so much further than just his two fingers, and she makes a strange noise in the back of her throat.

He grabs both of her legs, guiding them. She wraps her legs around him, and he is pushed deeper into her. He leans forward, making strange noises of his own, to lay his face against the crook of her neck.

“Tell me how...how this feels…” he breathes, face pressing against her shoulder. He is unraveling for a moment. “...how it feels with me inside you.”

“It feels unlike anything,” she replies, keeping her tone even.

“Unlike anything...what?” There is a bite of annoyance in his tone, and he pushes into her a little harder this time.

“It feels unlike anything I’ve ever felt,” she whispers, still mostly toneless.

“Mmm...that’s better.” He seems content with her reply, as he continues, this time slower.

The pleasure is agonizing, and her rigid expression gives way as her mouth opens. She can’t stop the little gasps and moans that escape her mouth. He leans back into a standing position so that he can observe all of her little movements.

She knows that his aim is to have her come, to have her weeping with pleasure in his arms. Her compliant body sings under the influence of the slave crown, wanting only to please its master. Her will, her mind, is not a strong enough match. If she could, she would engulf the both of them in the flames he was so enamoured with. She would rid the world of him, as well as herself. Her dangerous self.

But instead she only moans, her arousal a mind of its own. She spreads her legs to take him in deeper, to hit that spot inside of her. Her body wants to climb a different mountain.

“Yesss...such a sweet little thing.” He is excited by her action, and he slides his hands down her sides, digging his nails in once he reaches her hips. He grabs ahold of her hips for better leverage, and slams into her.

He snakes his hands behind her back, gathering her up and pulling her to him so that their chests press together. One of his hands presses into her lower back, pushing her even closer against him. The other hand digs into her shoulder, then slides up beneath her hair to grab at the back of her neck.

“Kiss me.” His command is breathy, his voice deeper than its usual trill.

She complies, leaning her face up towards his so that he can press his lips against her. His tongue invades her mouth, and she can taste the grease paint. The hand at the back of her neck slides up to grab at her hair, and he uses this leverage to press her face against his even more. He is kissing her so desperately that their noses are smashed together. She gasps into his mouth, short of breath, and he pulls back for a moment.

She leans forward to bury her face into his neck. He had paused his thrusts, choosing to focus all of his energy into kissing her. He now resumes his movements, pulling out of her slowly, before he would slam back in, filling her all the way up,  

“You’re _mine_ ,” he growls, all evidence of his high pitched trill gone. His voice is so deep, animalistic, revealing of his true nature. “You are _mine_ to touch, _mine_ to fuck...do you understand?”

“Yes, sir, ye-ahh!” She cries out as he grinds into her, stroking that sweet spot deep inside her.

His hand in her hair relaxes its grip, and she cries in relief. There is so much of his grease paint on her body. Her thoughts are sluggish, her vision clouded by her arousal and her hatred. She balls her hands into fists, before stretching out her fingertips. She can feel the heat of her fire surging in time with her building climax.

“Yes,” he breathes, seeing the tiny fire in her palm, “Yesss, my sweet...let your power flow.”

He covers her hand with his own, and her fire is extinguished by his own magic. The sight of her fire had only served to excite him even more.

“Together...we will burn so many…” He fucks into her roughly, his breath ragged. He has lost all of his usual composure. His own moans are interrupted by the hint of a giggle. “D-did you know that?”

She knows he is close, all of his composure lost. He lets out a strangled sound as he finishes inside of her, one hand wrapped around her own, the other digging into her hip.

He is still for a moment, breathing into her neck. As his breath steadies, he begins to laugh softly. There is so much of him smothering her.

The face paint left all over her is heavy and sticky like molasses, sticking to her lips as she opens them to breathe. It feels as if the paint has stained her face, her lips, her ears, her hands, her chest, her thighs, her _mind_. Everywhere he has dragged his face and his hands against her.

 


End file.
